Seeds of Rebellion

by Brandon Mull

  A few people nodded at Jason. Most went about their business: unloading provisions from a wagon, adjusting the mechanisms of a huge catapult, standing watch on the wall or on the crenellated balconies projecting from the mountainside. No one approached Jason or Galloran to make conversation.

  “Why didn’t we ever hear Nedwin coughing?” Jason wondered.

  “I doubt he ever felt the urge,” Galloran said. “Felrook left his senses damaged. He must have noticed a shortness of breath, but Nedwin is the sort to silently push through such inconveniences.”

  Not far from the gate, they found a small, domed tent of stitched animal hides. A flap on the tent lifted as a skinny middle-aged woman emerged, along with a billow of fumes.

  “Is Tark inside?” Jason asked.

  She blinked repeatedly, wringing tears from her red-rimmed eyes. “Nedwin as well. Both should recover.” She spoke with a heavy accent, slurring her words. “Nedwin’s fate remained questionable until after the moon set. Tark should be able to quit the treatment by tonight, Nedwin by the next day. The wounds to Tark’s head were superficial. For both men, the lungrot is in full reversal.”

  “May we go inside?” Galloran asked.

  “If you like.” She smiled, showing small teeth. “You might consider holding your breath.”

  “Are they contagious?” Jason asked.

  Galloran shook his head. “The treatment is unpleasant.”

  Jason raised the flap and followed Galloran into the tent, ducking through the entrance. The low ceiling forced them to remain crouched. Tark and Nedwin lay on mats spread across wooden pallets that took up most of the floor space. Jason and Galloran squatted between them. Pungent vapors swirled up from clay vessels. Tark leaned up on one elbow and smiled, both of his eyes horribly bloodshot. “Kind of you to remember me,” he said before launching into a fit of coughing. He hawked up phlegm and spat into a pail.

  “Good to hear you coughing again,” Galloran said.

  “I feel loads better,” Tark agreed. “My eyes sting, though. And my mouth feels packed with cotton.” He fingered his chapped lips.

  Nedwin remained on his side, his breath quick and shallow, his eyes closed.

  “You should be back on your feet by tomorrow night,” Galloran said.

  “So they tell me.”

  “We ride to Longvale today. I have preparations to make. A guide will bring you and Nedwin to us once you’re both whole. Obey whatever instructions your caregiver offers.”

  “You wouldn’t believe some of the remedies I’ve had to drink,” Tark confided with a shudder.

  Galloran scratched his beard. “I would. I was treated for lungrot here myself once. Do yourself the kindness of not inquiring about the ingredients.”

  Tark grimaced. “The treatment almost seems more violent than the ailment.” He coughed again.

  “Such is the price one must pay to evict airborne parasites. Has Nedwin awakened?”

  “Several times,” Tark said. “He’s been in and out all morning.”

  Galloran touched Nedwin’s shoulder. The freckled man sat up, red eyes blinking. “Sire, am I needed?”

  “I just came to bid you adieu,” Galloran said. “I’m overjoyed to hear you will recover.”

  “It will take more than fungi to vanquish me, sire.”

  “I believe it. You appear to be in competent hands. Farewell until we meet again in Longvale.”

  “Hope you feel better,” Jason gasped. Since his first inhalation inside the tent, he had struggled to limit his breathing. Every whiff of the potent vapors made his eyes burn and the lining of his mouth tingle uncomfortably.

  While Tark croaked a reply, Jason stooped out of the tent. Gulping fresh air, he held the flap aside for Galloran. The brief exposure to the heady atmosphere already had his legs feeling unsteady. He wiped tears from his cheeks.

  “Back to the others?”

  Galloran nodded.

  Half an hour later, Jason and his companions rode down the pass on borrowed mounts into Broadvale. The expansive valley was sectioned into a patchwork of farmland nourished by an extensive irrigation system. Crops even flourished on the terraced slopes enclosing the valley, the tiered plots buttressed by retaining walls.

  Cornstalks overburdened with ears rose higher than Jason as he sat astride his horse. Workers labored amid countless acres of wheat, binding the harvest into golden sheaves. Fragrant trees were assembled in long rows, limbs laden with bounteous fruitage. One field contained white pumpkins the size of Volkswagen Beetles, and huge yellow squashes contorted like bizarre, bloated sculptures.

  Most of the buildings Jason observed were squat dwellings roofed with floral gardens. He also identified several windowless storage facilities. Beside a waterfall on the near side of the valley stood an enormous structure connected to a massive waterwheel.

  Jason wondered if he had ever felt this refreshed. Yesterday, death had only been a few minutes behind them. Today they rode at a leisurely pace through the safest nation in Lyrian. The mat he had slept on had not been soft, but it had done the job. He had slumbered long and deep.

  Beneath the warm sun, the group traversed the fertile valley at a relaxed pace. They passed a field smothered by tangled, leafy vines.

  “What crop is that?” Jason asked.

  “Describe it,” Galloran said.

  “A bunch of vines that look like they belong in a jungle.”

  “Those are kathoras, the most essential of all crops here. The fruit draws impurities from the soil. The vines hoard nutrients. Once the vines mature, the fruit is discarded, and the rest is plowed into the soil. Humankind has yet to discover a superior fertilizer.”

  The road began snaking up a rise at the far end of the valley. When they topped the slope, another spacious valley spread out before them, running a long way to the east before it seemed to turn a corner. Like Broadvale, all available land was being cultivated, but this deeper valley also featured a large lake that mirrored the blue sky. Fishing vessels drifted on the water, the distance reducing them to miniatures.

  One switchback below Jason and his companions, a pair of riders were ascending out of Crookvale. The riders looked up. One was a young man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Jasher, except he wore a neatly trimmed beard along his jawline and had darker hair. The other was a lovely woman, her striking eyes a frosty blue.

  “Galloran?” the woman called.

  “Is that Farfalee?”

  “You have sharp ears.” She urged her mount to lope up the final switchback, and dismounted.

  Galloran dropped to the ground, his broad grin creating a pair of dimples. “I did not expect to greet you until we reached Longvale.”

  “I couldn’t wait,” Farfalee said. She walked to Galloran and embraced him. Tall and slender, she was nearly his height. Her thick black hair was pulled back in intricate braids, and she wore earth-toned clothing, with an elk-hide shawl draped across her shoulders. The days of young womanhood were behind her, but her beauty had yet to fade.

  “Greetings, Galloran,” the young man said from astride his piebald mount.

  “Could that be Lodan?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He sounds like a man!”

  “His First Death ceremony is only weeks away,” Farfalee said. “You should attend.”

  “His First Death? Has it been so long? When I last saw Lodan, he came no higher than my waist.”

  Farfalee placed a hand on Galloran’s arm. “It has been too many years.” She looked up at the others in the group. “I understand one of you brought my husband’s seed to East Gate.”

  “That would be Tark,” Drake said. “He and one other of our number remain at West Gate undergoing treatment for lungrot.”

  Farfalee regarded Drake coolly. “Why must those who least deserve misfortune suffer the most?”

  Drake gave her a wink. “What? No welcome for me?”

  “I’m saving my enthusiasm for your departure,” she said.

&nb
sp; Drake shrugged. “Maybe I’ll stay.”

  “Until you’re exiled. Shouldn’t take long. It’s really just a formality.”

  “Don’t fret, Failie,” he said, turning and raising the hair at the nape of his neck. “You’ll be rid of me soon enough.”

  Farfalee gasped, her hands covering her mouth. “Your amar!”

  “Karma has spoken,” Drake said simply.

  Tears shimmered in her eyes. “Oh, Drake. I had no idea.”

  “What happened to it?” Lodan asked, brow steepled in concern.

  “My seed failed to form correctly the last time I was reborn,” Drake said. “This will be my final lifetime. I’m at peace with the notion. I’m not sure any lesser incentive could have convinced me to rejoin the living.”

  Farfalee plucked uncomfortably at her shawl. “Under the circumstances, I imagine I can persuade the Conclave to defer any—”

  Drake laughed harshly. “You think I care how the Conclave rules about me? I’d wear exile like a badge of honor. My only concern would be if they tried to keep me here. Save your influence for cajoling those old windbags into letting our people survive.”

  Farfalee sighed tolerantly. “Your charm never ceases to amaze.”

  Jason looked at Lodan. “Jasher is your father?”

  Drake slapped his forehead. “We’ve skipped introductions! Lodan is the son of Farfalee and Jasher. Farfalee is my eldest sister.” Drake went on to introduce Jason and the others. “It was Lord Jason who helped me find the will to forsake Harthenham,” he finished.

  “You changed his mind about something?” Farfalee exclaimed. “Surely you must be a sorcerer.”

  “All I did was provide an opportunity,” Jason replied. “Without Drake, we wouldn’t have fought our way free.”

  “My brother has always been handy in a fight,” Farfalee said. “The question tends to be whether he’ll see it through to the end. Galloran, is it true you seek audience with the Conclave?”

  “I come to discuss matters of great significance.”

  “Were you aware that I now sit as an elder?”

  “You’re one of the windbags?” Drake gasped.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Jeneva abandoned the Vales, Prizette refuses to serve, and Lubella is in the ground. I have fixed your hearing for tomorrow.”

  “So soon?” Galloran said.

  “Your arrival made waves,” Farfalee explained. “We’ve already received a formal complaint from the emperor. To hear him tell it, you’re wanted criminals who murdered a dozen guards on a bridge. Apparently we interfered with the arrest of nefarious fugitives. The message even cited a signed confession by a member of your party. A displacer, no less.”

  “All distortions,” Galloran said. “Maldor drew first blood when he attacked my home and slew a number of my people.”

  Farfalee held up a hand. “Nobody gives any real credence to the charges. You and the emperor are at war. What concerns some is that the emperor is behaving as though he now has a grievance with us.”

  “Absurd!” Drake blustered. “The emperor was indisputably in the wrong sending troops up our pass!”

  Farfalee eyed her brother. “I’m certain you can imagine his arguments. It was a small force, obviously not meant to invade the Vales, but rather to bring murderous criminals to justice. Outlaws whom we protected with our troops and whom we are now harboring. Modest imperial forces are currently encamped outside the passes to both gates. Maldor demands we turn all of you over to his representatives immediately.”

  “Or what?” Drake scoffed. “He’ll invade? With what army? The bulk of his forces are tied up besieging Kadara! Even with the full strength of his armies behind the endeavor, he wouldn’t dare attack us until the rest of Lyrian has been thoroughly cowed. He’s acquainted with our defenses at the gates and along the rims of both gorges, and he can’t lay siege to a self-sufficient kingdom.”

  “But he can openly seek to burn our seeds,” Farfalee responded. “He can stop pretending to respect our strength and formally declare war.”

  Drake shook his head. “That day is inevitable. Why hide from it? Why not commence hostilities while his forces are divided and we might actually have a chance to harm him?”

  “You know the concerns,” Farfalee sighed. “The longer we have to prepare, the more likely we can endure the eventual assault. Our warriors would be much more vulnerable on offense than on defense. If the emperor wants a fight with us, he’ll have to best us on a familiar battleground that we’ve been prepping for centuries.”

  Drake chuckled cynically. “The only catch being that if we have no offense, we’ll never win.”

  “I wholeheartedly agree,” Farfalee said. “You know I’m with you on this issue. But many among us would rather delay the confrontation for as long as possible. They imagine that our defenses could prove so strong that Maldor will ignore the Vales and content himself with governing the rest of the continent.”

  “Lunacy,” Galloran grunted.

  “Agreed,” Farfalee said. “Maldor’s ambition knows no bounds. He will never be content so long as the greatest threat to his rule survives.”

  Galloran spoke gravely. “Let him finish with the other kingdoms of Lyrian, give him time to marshal his forces, time to craft the attack of his choosing, and these Vales will burn.”

  Farfalee arched an eyebrow. “I take it this will be the subject of the Conclave?”

  Galloran gave a nod. “After imparting some news, I intend to argue that the Amar Kabal should terminate their treaty with Maldor and actively rebel against him.”

  Farfalee placed a hand on his shoulder. “Should your motion fail, your opponents among my people will seek to turn you over to the emperor.”

  “I understand the stakes. What are the chances of success?”

  Farfalee frowned. “Unfavorable. The climate here grows ever more cautious. None wish to acknowledge the threat the emperor could pose in fifty years. Some are talking of flight.”

  “Preposterous!” Drake blurted. “Where would they flee? The northern hinterlands?”

  “Some have suggested as much. Others have spoken of exploring the far reaches of the western ocean.”

  “Why not a ladder to the moon?” Drake proposed.

  “Who currently serves on the Conclave?” Galloran asked.

  “Pallas, Dregan, Naman, Ilestra, and myself. Be forewarned, Naman has gained serious influence, and no argument will quiet his skepticism. A majority of our citizens currently side with him. In these uncertain times, when the other kingdoms of Lyrian are either subdued or under siege, our people prefer the idea of defending familiar territory rather than sacrificing themselves abroad on a hopeless offensive.”

  Galloran cleared his throat. “If an offensive is indeed hopeless, such sentiments would be justified. I will endeavor to demonstrate otherwise.”

  “May you succeed where others have failed,” Farfalee said earnestly. “An unflinching examination of how best to oppose the rising power of Felrook is long overdue.”

  Galloran reached for his horse. “If the Conclave intends to hear me on the morrow, we ought to keep riding.”

  Farfalee and Galloran returned to their mounts. As they descended the looping path, Lodan fell in beside Jason. Once Jason explained his friendship with Jasher, Lodan insisted Jason recount all that he could remember about their time together. Jason told how the seedman had rescued him from an ambush of manglers and conscriptors. He related their travels through the Sunken Lands, including Jasher’s courage battling giant toads. His tale culminated by detailing how Jasher had sacrificed his life to enable an escape from Harthenham.

  Lodan absorbed the information, obviously grateful for any anecdote about the father he had not seen for years. “I envy you,” he admitted once Jason had finished. “I’ve longed to be abroad with my father on adventures like the ones you describe.”

  “His seed is in the ground?”

  “It was the only way he could have reentered the Vales. H
e should be with us in a week or so. I can hardly wait! Of course, after his rebirth, he’ll be expelled again. His banishment remains in force.”

  “So you haven’t … died yet?”

  “This is my first lifetime. There aren’t many others my age. Eldrin designed our race to become less fertile over the years. Hardly any of our women can have babies anymore.”

  “Farfalee mentioned your First Death,” Jason said. “How does that work?”

  “When I die for the first time, the physical condition of my body will become permanently sealed to my amar. Thereafter I will be reborn at exactly the same age as when I first experienced death. My memories will continue to accumulate, but my body will look the same every time. There’s a big ceremony involved. I’ve lived nearly twenty years, the age at which most of my people choose to embrace the First Death. I’ve been working to build up my strength and endurance, so that ever after I’ll be born in good health.”

  “Wow. So they’ll kill you?”

  “Just this body. I’ll be reborn into an identical one, which will age until I perish and my seed is replanted. The First Death is necessary. It would defeat the purpose of having an amar if I lived a long life only to be reborn over and over as an old man on my deathbed.”

  “Makes sense,” Jason said. “Do you know how much you look like your father?”

  “I hear that often, especially from my mother.”

  They continued in silence. Jason tried to absorb the beauty around him—the smell of ripe crops in fertile soil, the splashing of a lively brook, the way cloud shadows gradually slid across the wheat fields.

  They stopped for lunch at the edge of the lake. Jason sat on a rock near the water, chewing on a hunk of pumpkin bread. Corinne came and sat beside him, picking at a muffin.

  “Good muffin?” Jason asked.

  “I like the nuts. I can still hardly believe we made it here.”

  “It looked bleak.” Jason motioned toward the lake with his bread. “This sure beats angry soldiers trying to kill you.”

  “I would take the soldiers over the swamp,” Corinne said, brushing hair back from her eyes. “Even when I was exhausted and frightened we were going to die, part of me kept insisting how pleasant it was to be actually doing something.”